


Love All

by juliafied



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, F/M, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yes you heard it here first, badminton au, sports AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29672586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliafied/pseuds/juliafied
Summary: There's a good-looking, unusually talented stranger at the Kirkwall Badminton Club, and long-time member Hawke hopes that he'll stick around long enough to win a few men's singles tournaments for KBC. However, when she recruits him as her mixed doubles partner, Hawke’s not banking on magic happening - on, or off the court.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Comments: 17
Kudos: 12





	1. 0-0

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very niche AU that came up in conversation with [Viscariafields](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscariafields/pseuds/Viscariafields) and now it will not let me rest until it is out here.

He is serving, the first time Hawke spots him, the long fingers of his left hand holding the feathers of the shuttle elegantly, pinky and ring finger raised. The racquet in his right hand is cocked towards him, and he is so still, as is his opponent, racquet raised to receive. The muscles in his back leg are taut – he is rather tall and lean, as many high-level men’s singles badminton players are. However, perhaps the most striking thing about him is his white hair, tied back into a short ponytail at the base of his neck.

She watches him serve, nice and low over the net, as she gets closer to the bench behind the stranger’s court, nearly running into another player on the way. His opponent, who she now recognizes as Ricardo, an older member of the club, is forced to clear it to the back court, but it isn’t high enough – the stranger moves quickly and smashes it easily, cross-court. Ricardo barely makes it to his left side to defend, his weaker backhand yielding a drive that’s much too high, right into the stranger’s forehand. He smashes it again, this time definitively, and the birdie strikes the polished wood of the court with a decisive _thwack_.

Hawke hefts her heavy bag off her shoulder as she carefully avoids the court lines behind the stranger’s side, and sits down on the bench, next to her usual partner, who watches the game intently with her elbows on her knees.

Kicking off her outdoor sneakers, she leans against Aveline’s shoulder. “What’s the score?”

“That was 14-8, I think. Ricardo’s getting pummeled.”

Impressive. Ricardo had played for Antiva City’s university varsity team in his younger years and was still a powerhouse on the court, despite having a bad knee and being in his mid-fifties.

“Not bad,” remarks Hawke, as she watches them exchange a series of drop shots, ending with a clear to the back court that Ricardo just can’t reach in time. “Who’s the new guy?”

Aveline shrugs. “I dunno. Merrill signed him in. A drop-in, I guess.”

“Hmm,” Hawke hums. She takes her court shoes out from her bag and slips them on. Aveline looks at them and nods appreciatively.

“Those new?”

“Yeah, nice and squeaky.”

To demonstrate, she digs them into the freshly-cleaned court by her feet, resulting in a squeak that echoes through the gymnasium. She looks back at the game and sees that the stranger is in the middle of serving once again but has glanced back to glare at her. Green eyes, framed by long, dark eyelashes meet hers for only a moment, long enough for her to notice his strong, Grecian nose, angular chin, and set, stubborn mouth. She almost rolls her eyes. So, he’s one of _those_ people. The kind who take themselves too seriously on the court. She might have known, what with his all black brand name outfit and the clearly high-end racquet.

He’s also an elf, she realizes now that he’s turned his head, and despite the glare, she’s pleased – they’ve been trying for years to attract more elves to the club, with limited success. She knows that badminton isn’t always the most accessible after-work activity, high club fees coupled with expensive equipment being discouraging to most of the elves of the Kirkwall alienage. Add in the fact that some human players are outright hostile towards elves, and, well, it isn’t a surprise that many don’t want to pick up a racquet. The club’s management passed to Merrill a few years ago, though, allowing her to choose a cheaper gym rental in Lowtown close to the alienage, allowing them to lower membership fees, and together with Hawke, they set up an equipment donation drive for kids from low-income families interested in the sport. As he and Ricardo exchange a set of volleys and the stranger continues to rack up points, Hawke wonders how he found out about the club – his gear looks too expensive for the alienage apartments, where she and Merrill regularly stuff mailboxes full of advertisements for Kirkwall Badminton Club (a club for everyone!) – but elves aren’t exactly welcome outside of the alienage in Kirkwall, either. Maybe not a local, then.

“11-19,” calls out Ricardo from across the net, and Hawke feels Aveline wince next to her.

“Ouch,” Hawke agrees, and they watch as Ricardo’s opponent feints on a back court clear to float the shuttle just over the tape of the net, landing just before the service line diagonally across the court from the stranded Ricardo.

“Beautiful,” she calls out. The stranger flashes her a wry (and attractive, she realizes) smile before taking his service position and announcing, “20-11. Game point.”

It’s that same perfect serve again, and though Ricardo gives a valiant effort to drop it cross-net, his opponent is just too damn fast, clearing straight to the back court and recovering quickly back to center. By the time Ricardo drop shot from back court makes it, just a little too high, over the net, he is ready. Hawke expects a drive, but he just drops the bird cross-court, where it lands resolutely on the floor, out of Ricardo’s reach.

Ricardo whistles appreciatively before meeting the stranger at the net to shake hands. With the court now free, Hawke waves to the other side of the gym where Merrill and her usual partner Isabela sit.

“Court!” yells Ricardo as he walks off, and Merrill and Isabela quickly jog over to his former side. The victor, however, crouches off to the side, collecting the dead feather shuttles the game has left behind.

“Impressive game,” Hawke says lightly as she approaches, racquet in hand, kicking one of the further away dead shuttles towards him. He picks it up along with the rest of them and stands to greet her. “You must be new here. I’m Hawke.” She sticks her hand out and he surreptitiously wipes his own on his shorts before shaking it.

“Fenris.” His voice is somehow gravelly, yet soft as velvet, and Hawke catches herself wishing he’d go on. Annoyingly, he doesn’t offer anything else, instead opting to watch her closely, suspiciously, even.

Undeterred, she responds brightly, “It’s nice to meet you, Fenris. And nice to watch you play, too. Ricardo’s our best singles player, ever since the young guys went off to college. Where did you train?”

Fenris uses his free hand to wipe the sweat off his brow and bends down to pick his racquet off the floor. “Ah. Thank you.” Now, he frowns, though Hawke isn’t sure why. “I used to play in Seheron.”

“Interesting. We’ve never played against any clubs from out of there.”

She hears Aveline call her name, and she gives Fenris a smile. “Anyway, see you around!”

* * *

She wins most of her games that night, although she makes a couple of embarrassing mistakes in the only game she gets to play with Varric, a former Orzammar nationally-ranked mixed doubles player and the _de facto_ coach to the club.

“Come on, focus,” he growls as her drop shot goes a little too high and he’s forced to defend against a smash at the net yet again. “Don’t forget to choke up on the racquet. Let’s see some more _aggression_!”

Her strongest game is usually when she can be at the net, but she’s feeling out of sync tonight – she _knows_ what she ought to do, her body’s just not doing it. In the end, they lose by two points against a pair that they should have beaten handily. Ever the good sport, though, Varric only grins and claps a hand on her shoulder as they walk off the court, having shaken their opponents’ hands.

“Don’t worry about it, Hawke. Happens to the best of us.”

Isabela then comes up behind her to slink an arm around her shoulders and adds, “And if you’re worried, that’s what the bar is for!”

Hawke laughs. “Varric, do you think a shot of tequila would make my game even worse… or improve it?”

“Improve, but only if you take as many shots as the number of points you lost us in that game.”

At that, she scowls and makes as if to wallop Varric with her racquet, but he speeds away with a wink before she can get him. Isabela goes to pack up her things and Hawke, seeing that Aveline hasn’t left yet, speeds over to her own bag that’s next to where Aveline’s tugging on her boots.

“You coming tonight?” she asks, a mild amount of needling in her voice. “C’mon, you haven’t come to Friday drinks in _forever_.”

“Well, until they stop giving me Saturday shifts at the station, forever’s going to have to go on a bit longer, I’m afraid.”

Hawke groans, and slumps down on the bench next to her. “Can’t there just be one Saturday where there are no fires to fight? I bet if you asked nicely, all the arsonists in Darktown would let you have a day off.”

Aveline chuckles, and then sighs. “Maybe if the city could finally fix all those problems with the electrical grid in Darktown, then we could talk.”

“Right. Got it. It’s on my to do list. Anything else?”

She hoists her bag onto her shoulder and takes her keys out of the small pocket on the front. “See you next week, Hawke.”

“See ya.”

Hawke is kicking off her shoes and changing into fresh socks when Fenris approaches, arms crossed, staring at her pointedly. A spot of sweat sticks has his shirt stuck to his chest, and it’s not entirely unflattering. His finely muscled shoulders are covered in a sheen of sweat as well, and she didn’t notice when speaking with him before, but his arms and legs are filigreed with vine-like tattoos. The tattoos continue on the part of his chest that she can see above the collar of his shirt, tapering into two light lines on his chin. They resemble Merrill’s Dalish face tattoos, though she’s never seen them in this light, almost white colour. As if aware of her gaze, Fenris scowls, and points between her legs.

“You’re on my things.”

She looks down. Sure enough, under the bench lies a black racquet bag to match his black uniform. She slides over, dragging her own bag with her. “Sorry.”

Fenris says nothing, and sits down beside her, meticulously packing up his things into individual cloth bags that he produces from his larger pack. Hawke can’t help but watch, mesmerized, as his lovely hands, lined too with the white tattoos, stack the not-completely-dead feather birds into an empty shuttle container.

“You know,” he says once he’s done, startling her out of her reverie, “it’s rude to stare.”

Now, she blushes, and busies herself with putting away her own shoes. “I—” she starts, but he waves her away.

“No, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter – I don’t think I’ll be coming back here.”

Her stomach drops, and she tries to come up with something – an apology, a sermon, anything. Felissa Hawke is nothing if she’s not an excellent talker. But somewhere in between the panic and the guilt, all she manages to blurt out is, “Do you want to go to the Hanged Man with us?”

* * *

In retrospect, perhaps Friday night drinks with her motley crew of friends wasn’t the _best_ idea for Hawke to come up with to convince Fenris to keep playing at their club, but looking at him now, squeezed as he is between Merrill and Varric in their usual booth, he seems happy enough. He’s an absolute beast at Wicked Grace, even winning against Isabela for a few rounds, who _always_ cheats. Hawke finds that he has the type of laugh that might have made a younger version of herself swoon, and his dry humour has her in stitches. Eventually, he even loosens up enough to order a drink.

“Alright, folks, you know the drill. IDs, please.”

The whole table groans as Corff brings the next pitcher of beer, and something called a ‘porn star’, which Isabela now whispers conspiratorially that she ordered specifically for Fenris. Varric gives an especially large sigh and turns to the bartender after fetching his driver’s license from his wallet.

“You know, kid, I’m flattered, I know I don’t look a day over twenty, but is this really necessary? We’ve been coming here every week for the past three years.”

Corff gives a cursory glance at the little card and slides it back to Varric. “The city’s been breathing down my neck these past few weeks. Can’t be too careful. Besides, how do I know your new friend over there isn’t a minor?”

Fenris, who is clearly not a minor and scowls to signal as much, reaches into a pocket on his jacket. Hawke sees that he hesitates for a moment before retrieving not a wallet, as she was expecting, but a passport. He slides it towards Corff, who picks it up disinterestedly, glances at Fenris, and hands him back the document.

Varric eyes the passport as Fenris pockets it. “Tevinter, eh? We must all seem real different to you, then.”

Something in Fenris’ gaze darkens, and he doesn’t pick up the drink Isabela slides in front of him. Corff finishes with his ID inspection and swans off to another table. Hawke takes a sip of the truly horrid, but cheap, beer that Varric has just finished pouring in her pint glass.

“It’s all different,” he mutters, and it’s clear to Hawke that he doesn’t want to talk about it any further.

Before she can change the subject, however, Merrill pipes up. “Is it true that the government monitors everything people say and do there?” she asks, the picture of innocent curiosity. “I can’t imagine living like that.”

Fenris doesn’t respond, the frown on his lips deepening, and Merrill continues. “I’ve heard all the cities are smart cities, though. Nothing like Kirkwall. I can barely figure out how to catch the bus to Hightown, most days.”

Varric, perceptive as always, gently interjects. “I don’t think anything Kirkwall does, smart or otherwise, could help you with that, Daisy.”

Merrill is about to object, but she is interrupted by Isabela, who has looked up towards the door of the Hanged Man. “Anders! You made it!” she calls out, and Hawke gives a half-hearted wave in his direction. Ever since she rejected him a few years ago, she’s only been able to hang out with him with the group, and even so, it occasionally gets awkward. She’s never said anything, out of guilt, perhaps, or pity for a man who works so hard and has so few friends, but she wishes Isabela would stop inviting him to their outings.

It’s too late now, though, as he slides in next to Merrill on their side of the table – Isabela must have texted him on the way to the bar.

“How’s everyone’s night going? Hello, nice to meet you, I’m Anders,” he says, extending his hand for Fenris to shake.

“Fenris is from Tevinter,” Merrill exclaims, and it’s all Hawke can do not to groan when Anders’ eyes practically light up from excitement.

“Tevinter? _Really_?”

Varric gives Hawke a look, and adds wryly, “Got the passport and everything.”

 _Varric!_ Hawke thinks sharply, but it’s hardly his fault. Thanks to Merrill, the damage is already done.

“That’s amazing! Oh, it must be so strange for you to be here. Kirkwall is so backwards, isn’t it? I really wish the Free Marches could take some examples from our neighbours to the north. Why would you ever leave there?”

Hawke _senses_ more than sees the rage appear on Fenris’ face. All vestiges of the easy smile he sported before are quickly replaced by a flinty, bitter expression. It makes her hair feel like it’s standing on end.

To his credit, all Fenris does is ignore Anders’ proffered hand and snap, “I see the propaganda is working as intended in the south. I’m sure the Archon will be pleased.”

 _Please, please leave it at that_ , mentally pleads Hawke, but of course, with Anders, it’s never that simple.

Anders, narrowing his eyes, retracts his hand. “It’s hardly propaganda if it’s _true_. The laws banning lyrium mining in the south have greatly slowed our technological advancement, and it’s a damn shame, if you ask me. I’m a clinician,” and here he smiles proudly, “and every day I see patients come in who could have been helped, if not for the quite frankly _blatant_ anti-intellectualism being practiced by the southern coalition. In fact, I’d move there tomorrow, if not for the travel restrictions.”

At first, Hawke thinks Fenris is going to smack him, but he just stares at Anders for a few moments before shaking his head.

“I’ve heard enough,” he says, an edge of cool anger in his voice, and grabs his racquet bag from underneath the table. Isabela lets him out of the table wordlessly, and he dons his jacket.

“It was nice meeting some of you. Perhaps I’ll see you around.”

And just like that, he walks through the door.

Anders is already starting to complain about the ‘new guy’ as Hawke scrambles out of her seat to follow him.

“Fenris,” she calls into the cool spring night, but nobody answers, and she can’t see where he’s gone. There’s only one way out of the dead end street where the Hanging Man is located, though, so she spots him as she turns the corner onto the main street. “Fenris!”

He stops but doesn’t turn around. Strangely, the white tattoos seem glittery and metallic in the light of the full moon – she can see the patterns on his legs and arms much more clearly.

“Fenris,” she breathes as she comes up in front of him, only slightly out of breath from her sprint. “I’m sorry about my… about Anders. He’s just like that. I could tell you didn’t want to talk about it, and I should have changed the subject before Merrill said anything. I’m sorry,” she says once again, feeling invariably guilty at the stone expression on Fenris’ face.

“Just – please don’t let this stop you from coming back to the club. Anders doesn’t even play, he’s too busy.” She’s embarrassed at the ease with which the next sentences come out of her mouth. “You’re a fantastic player, and we really need someone like you right now for the inter-club tournament. Besides, I’m sure the elven kids from the alienage who come to train would love to have you as a role model.” For a moment, he looks at her as if she’s struck him, but for some reason the anger fades from his face, replaced with a kind of resignation. She gives a little relieved sigh.

“Will you? Come back, I mean?”

He frowns, brow heavy, but he nods. “I’ll think about it.”

She can’t help herself – she touches his forearm briefly, gratefully. It’s as if a static shock passes between them, and she feels a shudder form at the base of the spine. She withdraws, and the feeling passes as quickly as it started.

“Thank you, Fenris.”

Suddenly mortified, she runs back towards the pub, away from this strange man whose touch makes her shiver. She tries not to think that there are only seven more days until she sees him again.


	2. A Smash Hit

The following Friday, Hawke spends a puzzling and frankly embarrassing amount of time watching the doors to the gymnasium during her games. It’s only after Aveline sternly reprimands her for missing three service returns in a row that she gives up hope (or mild interest, she tells herself) of seeing him on the court that night. Of course, this means that she nearly runs right into Fenris as she goes to fill up her water bottle outside the gym.

“Oh,” she says, uncertain why she is so flustered. Probably because she is thirsty. “Hey.”

The look that he gives her is perplexed, but he stays to watch her at the water fountain. He’s still in his dark blue jacket and his racquet bag is on his back. She is about to ask what held him up when she’s distracted by the form-fitting, grey sweatpants he has on. More specifically, what she can see _inside_ the sweatpants.

“Your bottle’s overflowing,” he says pointedly. She scrambles to take it out from under the spout of the tap and turns it off, blushing in the process.

“Thanks,” she mutters, and because she can’t think of anything else to say, she asks, “You worked late today?”

Fenris grimaces and nods. “The wine shop gets a lot of customers on Friday nights. Unsurprisingly.”

She is surprised that he follows her to where she’s left her things, at the same spot as last week. She’s even more surprised when he sits on the bench next to her and proceeds to peel off his sweatpants and change into his court shoes.

Realizing that she probably shouldn’t just watch him silently, since he had rebuked her for it last time, she picks her racquet off the bench and plays with launching a nearby birdie into the air and catching it on her racquet. “Which one do you work at?”

His voice is muffled as he bends down to tie his laces. “In the Hightown marketplace.”

“Ha! I bet you get a lot of pretentious pricks in there.”

At that, he looks up at her and smiles wryly. “You’re not wrong.”

Hawke looks up to see Isabela catch her eye from across the gym and give her a wink. She rolls her eyes, but then Aveline is back on the middle court and is waving at her to come play.

“Catch you later,” she says to Fenris as she walks to join Aveline, and he waves the arm that he’s stretching.

It’s a game against Merrill and Isabela, and each pair takes one half of the court to warm up and hit a few shots, meaning Isabela is on Hawke’s side.

“He’s good-looking,” says Isabela from mid-court as she hits a clear to Merrill.

It’s a statement of objective fact, but Hawke still hisses, “Shh!”, even though the man is clearly two courts away, warming up with Varric, Ricardo, and a Kirkwaller named Crayden. She nearly misses the clear Aveline has sent her, too, and hastily turns it into a drop shot, which Aveline has to lunge unexpectedly to reach.

“Sorry!” she shouts to her mildly offended partner, while Isabela snickers.

“He was watching you as you walked over here, actually. I mean, as would anyone, your ass looks _great_ in those shorts. Or was that the point of wearing them?”

This time, Hawke misses the shot from Aveline outright in favour of glaring at Isabela. “They’re comfortable. And it’s getting warmer now.”

Isabela chortles. “Whatever you say, my dear.”

She and Aveline lose the game, but only narrowly, their final score only two points apart. She hears Fenris calling out his score, 9-6, but she tries not to flick her eyes towards him as she walks off her own court and sits down next to Merrill.

“So,” she starts, pointedly _not_ looking at the powerful shoulders of the elf in her peripheral vision, “how’re things at work?”

“Oh, you know,” she replies brightly. “I thank the Creators every time the students narrowly avoid a Bunsen-burner related catastrophe. We’ve needed new ones for years, but the alienage just isn’t a priority for the board.”

Despite her lively tone, Hawke knows that she’s been singing this song for years, and when she gets a few drinks in her, it gets progressively sadder.

“You know, we could always try scraping some funds together, get the club involved…”

“No, that’s quite alright,” Merrill says firmly, a smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach the curls of the _vallaslin_ around her eyes. “If the board sees that it can be fixed externally, they’ll never give us the funds we need. And what happens when people’s charity dries up?”

“Hmm,” says Hawke. They’ve had this discussion dozens of times, and besides, she’s too distracted to pursue the subject.

After avoiding him for some time, her gaze reluctantly settles on Fenris’ game as his partner goes in for a net kill that the opposing team just narrowly returns. However, instead of reaching for the backhand to return, Fenris watches it fall to the floor. It’s indeed out, by just a hair, and his partner, Crayden, taps him lightly on the back with his rachquet to say, _‘good job’_. Hawke echoes the sentiment with a mental ‘ _good eye_ ’, and watches him serve, fluid and focused, as his partner prepares to return the expected clear. Their opponent, however, sends a drop shot that just barely ticks over the net on Fenris’ backhand side. However, he’s there already, and gives the falling shuttle the lightest tap. It lands directly on the outer line of the court on the other side, by the net, and neither opponent gets there in time. _Nice placement_ , Hawke wants to call out, but she stays quiet.

The next rally is longer, and Hawke admires how Fenris tries to take every shot that he can, even the impossible-seeming ones that he’s forced to nearly scrape off the floor to return. He runs circles around his partner, and flames, is he ever fast – rare is the occasion that he gets stuck in an unfavourable position on the court. She also starts to notice that he takes more than his fair share of shots, leaving Crayden glaring at him more than once. At this, she rolls her eyes: it’s the hallmark of a typical singles’ player playing doubles.

She and Aveline take their court once they’re done, and she taps him on the shoulder with her racquet as she passes him.

“Good running,” she drawls, and saunters off to join Aveline on the other side of the net. Perhaps she sways her hips a bit more than strictly necessary, but she’ll never admit it.

After their game, which they win decisively, Varric strolls onto the side of the court across from her as she bends down to tie her shoe. She makes to step off the court, but Varric calls out to her.

“Stay,” he says. “How ‘bout some mixed?”

She holds up the net for him to cross over to his side, but he shakes his head. “Claudette and I,” he gestures to the tall Orlesian woman walking onto the court, one of their best mixed doubles players, “want to play you. And the new guy.”

Hawke narrows her eyes while her heartbeat quickens. She gets up from tying her shoe and mouths to him, “What are you planning?”

He only smiles and shouts, “Fenris, fancy some mixed doubles?”

The elf in question looks around, as if Varric could have meant some other Fenris, and shrugs. “Why not?”

 _Such_ enthusiasm, Hawke thinks, resisting the urge to roll her eyes once again as he walks onto her half of the court. _He’s probably one of those guys who thinks of mixed as ‘singles with obstacle’_.

Or, he’s never even played, as evidenced by his confused expression when she sets up her serve automatically once the point of the birdie thrown in the air indicates that they serve first.

“Ladies serve first,” she explains, and then, seeing that he’s standing all the way at the back of the singles service box, beckons for him to come closer. “You want to stand right behind me when I’m serving. Have you played mixed before?”

It’s as she thought. He shakes his head.

“I’ll be at the front for most of the game, unless we’re defending. You know to split sides when they can smash, right?” At that, he nods, a mild scowl darkening his brow at the insinuation that he might not know, which she opts to ignore. “Your job is to get any shots that I can’t. Which is most of them.”

“And your job?”

She smiles wickedly. She loves this game. “To kill.”

And she does, the first time that Varric’s returned drop shot clears the net a bit too high. She’s ready, popping up from the half-squatting position she’s assumed for most of the rally, and her swing is a finisher – the net kill, which she executes with a sharp shout, thwacks the birdie cross-court and right into the corner, outside of both their opponents’ reach. She looks back at Fenris with a grin, who looks a little shocked, and assumes her half-squatting position at the serving line once again, one foot in the top left corner of Fenris’ serving box.

“What are you doing?” he growls as he catches the bird Varric hits to him.

“In proper mixed, the woman’s always at the front,” she says impatiently, “including during your serves.” She glances up to see that Varric is receiving, and looks back at Fenris, who looks vaguely flustered.

“How do I serve like this? You’re distracting, up in front of me like that.”

Maybe Isabela’s right and her ass really does look great in these shorts. She laughs a little at the thought, and replies, “I’ll stay out of your way, don’t worry. And keep your serve low.”

Fenris frowns, but he prepares nonetheless. Hawke allows herself to admire the focus on his brow, the mild pout to his lips for just a second; when she looks back at their opponents, he announces the score in his gravelly baritone, “2-1.” For a moment, it’s as if she can sense the tension of his focus behind her – and a quiet twang of tight strings against cork later, they’re off.

He serves too high, likely thrown off by her positioning, and they pay dearly for it. Claudette smashes, _hard_ , to Fenris’ backhand; to Fenris’ credit, the drive he returns across the court pushes Claudette to intercept the bird with her relatively weaker backhand. The bird drops back to the place where Hawke executed her last kill, but it’s too low above the net to do the same this time, so she pushes it in a high clear to the back court.

There, Varric’s overhead smash is waiting for her, aiming the bird directly between her eyes.

Panicking at the last second, and cursing herself for doing so, she ducks with a shouted “Yours!”, leaving Fenris to return the shot from between his legs.

Somehow, he manages to do so beautifully, but not without growling, “That was yours, Hawke!”

“Sorry!” she yells back, but there’s no time to be apologetic, because the bird has returned to her top left corner – she feints as if she is about to send back a clear but stops at the last moment to push the bird into a drop shot instead. Claudette lifts the shuttle, at her peril, and Fenris puts it down once and for all with a powerful smash to the middle side court.

“Yes!” she yells triumphantly as soon as the bird hits the ground and runs over to Fenris to clap him on the shoulder. “ _Great_ shot.”

His gaze seems to linger on where she touched him, and she doesn’t understand why, but his subsequent smile is wan. “Good rally.”

He continues serving, and this time, the bird nearly skims the tape of the net, it is so low. Varric returns it with a low push at Hawke’s eyes once again – eager to prove herself after her previous panic, she doesn’t blink, and drives it back, aiming for Varric’s knees. Varric returns the bird to Fenris’ back court, and Hawke hears the whoosh of the shuttle as it whizzes past her ear in a drop shot to Claudette’s forehand. Hawke drops it back, across the net, but hits it a little too hard, so even though Claudette can’t turn around fast enough to take the shot, Varric runs quickly enough that he can. He tries to catch Hawke with the same maneuver, but Fenris is even faster – he pushes Varric’s drop shot to the back court, and Claudette is forced to run and clear it, but weakly, right into Hawke’s forehand. She smashes it down with another cry, right in between Varric and Claudette’s racquets, down the middle of the court.

“They’re quick,” comments Fenris, as they take their serving positions.

“So are we,” Hawke replies, and it’s as if she can feel his smile on the back of her neck.

After Hawke and Fenris’ strong start, Claudette and Varric gain one point, then a second one. On one, Hawke gets too ambitious with a cross-court drop shot and hits it out; on the other, Fenris misses Claudette’s flick serve entirely, not expecting it to go in, but it hits the midline perfectly.

“Her serves are never out,” Hawke tells Fenris with a wink, and hits the bird to Claudette, who grins.

“3-3!”

Despite Claudette’s serves, they win the next two points and manage to maintain their two-point lead for most of the game. At one point, it seems as if they’ll lose it, but Hawke watches, in awe, as Varric and Claudette smash once, twice, a third time (which forces Fenris to dive across the court), and he returns every single shot. Varric pivots his strategy with a drop to Hawke’s backhand, who responds with a drive that Varric’s forced to lift. With a snap of his forearm and what sounds like an exhilarated growl, Fenris smashes the bird right into the ground at Claudette’s feet.

Hawke looks in his eyes: they are ferocious, determined, even as the sweat dampens and causes his white bangs to stick to his forehead.

“That was incredible,” she says, wondrous, and catches his left hand in her own, giving it a squeeze. A typical way of encouraging one’s partner in badminton, but this time, the touch is electrifying, dizzying, even. Fenris’ green eyes meet her own, and something that she can neither name nor identify passes between them. Hawke lets go of his hand, but they stare for a few breaths longer.

“Let’s do this, Hawke,” Fenris murmurs, and his fingers brush her lower back as she goes to her serving position.

She ignores the goosebumps and calls the score. “19-18.”

Varric lifts his hand to stop Hawke from setting up her serve, and he whispers something to Claudette, who nods, and lightly squeezes his shoulder. It had escaped her notice before, but now she sees that the whole club is watching their game from the sidelines; even those on the courts have paused their own games to watch.

“19-18,” calls out Hawke again, suddenly aware of the dozens of eyes on her. She feels a reassuring tap of Fenris’ racquet between her shoulder blades, and she takes a deep breath.

Her racquet hits the shuttle.

Claudette returns the serve with a sharp drive to Hawke’s chest, but she is ready and her racquet is up, clearing to Varric’s backhand. Varric is ready too, and Hawke mentally yells, _‘Sides!’_ , but Fenris is already there, next to her, without her having to say a word. He defends against Varric’s smash easily, popping the shuttle midway between Varric and Claudette. It hits the ground, and Fenris grins.

“One more point,” they say simultaneously, and grin.

 _One more point, now don’t fuck up the serve_ , thinks Hawke, aware of her propensity to do so on the twentieth point.

“20-18,” she calls, and lifts the bird in a salute to her opponents, as is customary. “Game point.”

The same gentle tap from Fenris between her shoulders, and she smiles as they set up their position.

This time, her serve is a hair wide, she can tell (and swears under her breath accordingly), but Varric takes it anyway. He drives it to Fenris’ backhand, who is forced to lift, and Claudette smashes to his forehand. The angle’s not sharp enough, however, because Hawke intercepts it in a sharp drive to the sidelines. Varric clears it to the back court, and Fenris drops to Claudette’s forehand. She tips the birdie over right into Hawke’s awaiting backhand kill, which Varric just barely returns.

 _Come on,_ Hawke thinks, _set me up, Fenris_.

As if he can read her thoughts, he obliges.

Impossibly quick, he pushes Varric backwards with a series of powerful drives to the back court. Claudette is alert, but they are too high and fast for her to intercept. Finally, the opportunity that Hawke’s been waiting for arises.

Varric clears, right to Fenris. He drops the bird gently near Varric’s knees.

And the shuttle returns, two feet above the tape, right into Hawke’s awaiting racquet.

Just as before, with a triumphant scream, she snaps her wrist, and the shuttle is driven into the wooden floor with a sharp crack.

“Yeah!” yells Hawke, at the same time as Fenris shouts, “Yes!”

Exhilarated, she drops her racquet and turns around to fling her arms around his neck. She immediately regrets her impulse, but not the feel of his strong shoulders under her fingers, nor the press of his muscular chest against hers. To her delight, he chuckles, his hands gently pressing against her back, just before her embarrassment gets the better of her and she lets go.

“Good game,” he says with a smile, and she tells herself that she isn’t blushing, that she’s just tired from the exercise, when they go to shake Varric and Claudette’s hands, under the net.

Varric raises an eyebrow as he says, “Well-played.”

Claudette’s eyes sparkle, too, when she shakes Hawke’s hand. “It’s nice to see you playing mixed again. You are so sharp at the net,” she says in her lightly-accented Common.

Hawke smiles and thanks her, ducking under the net to join them on their side and free up the court. The rest of the club has returned to their previous games, but some, including Aveline and Isabela, give a little clap in her direction.

She is still riding the euphoria of their win when Merrill announces that it is 10 PM and would you all please get out of here now. She and Fenris go back to where their things lay side by side, and start changing their shoes in companiable silence, Fenris slipping back into his sweatpants, she, taking out her tight bun and shaking out her hair. It’s a far cry from the awkward encounter of the week before, a fact that Hawke is keenly aware of.

“So, that was fun,” she says lightly, taking her jacket out of her bag and slipping it back on.

“I agree. There are few pleasures greater than playing mixed doubles with a beautiful woman, as I have discovered.”

He must be teasing her, but her jaw almost drops open – thankfully, before she can embarrass herself any further, Varric interrupts them.

“I knew I was onto something, putting you two together. That was glorious. Are you sure you’ve never played together before?”

“Yes,” says Hawke, crossing her arms, while Fenris only smiles.

“Well, since me and Claudette are the first string mixed team for KBC and you just beat us handily, you should really consider playing together in the inter-club tournament next month.”

Hawke considers, but when she glances at Fenris, his earlier smile has faded into a frown.

“I am not certain I’d be suited to competing,” he says quietly.

Varric shrugs. “It’s up to you,” he says, and starts to walk away. “I’m just saying,” he calls over his shoulder, “I know the general level of the teams that’ll be there, and if you play the way you did today, you two would have a shot at winning the whole thing.”

For some reason, this only deepens Fenris’ frown. He goes back to putting away his things, taking out a wet cloth to wipe down the soles of his badminton shoes. Hawke’s euphoria has vanished, suddenly, as has the easy atmosphere between them. She didn’t realize until Varric mentioned it how much she’d like to play with Fenris again.

She rifles through her bag, looking for her clean pair of socks, and she happens upon a red bandana.

“Hey,” she says to Fenris, who is tugging on his outdoor shoes. “You looked like you could use a headband, out there.” She wraps up the bandana into a thin strip, ties it around her head, and slips it off. Fenris accepts when she hands it to him, a curious look in his eyes.

“Here. So your manly pride isn’t wounded by going to the hair accessory aisle, or something.”

He snorts at her joke and slips the bandana into his bag. Suddenly, the tension in the air between them is released. “Thank you,” he says, and there’s sincerity in his voice. “It would be… nice, to play together again.”

Hawke hopes that her traitorous eyes don’t brighten too obviously. “Yeah, sure,” she says, trying to keep the hope out of her voice, slipping on her boots.

“And then we can see about the tournament,” Fenris continues.

He is waiting for her to finish packing up, she realizes, and she hastens to zip up her bag, slipping it on her shoulders.

“Cool. Yeah. Great.” They walk to the doors that lead outside together, after she says goodbye to Aveline, and tells Varric and Merrill that she’ll see them at the bar. “You coming tonight?”

She chastises her stupid brain for hoping that he says yes.

Before he can answer, Isabela catches up with them, pinching Hawke lightly on the ass.

“Hey!” Hawke shouts, but she is laughing, while Fenris raises an eyebrow.

“It’s these shorts, sweet thing, I can’t help myself.” Isabela’s always been very… liberally affectionate with her friends, and it’s one of the things Hawke loves about her. At this moment, however, she doesn’t appreciate the wink that Bela throws Fenris’ way. “How about you, hot stuff? You joining us for round two? Honestly, Anders has been going unchallenged in the group for far too long, I like it when there’s someone to call him out on his bullshit.”

Hawke groans. “Anders is coming again?”

Isabela eyes her reproachfully. “Come on, the man’s been on call at the hospital all week. The least he deserves is to have a drink with some friends at the end of a tough week.”

Hawke sighs, and replies, “Alright, sure, yeah. So, you up for a couple, Fenris?”

Fenris, who has been listening to their exchange as they approach Hawke’s car, shakes his head. “I’d rather avoid the politics. See you both next week.”

Hawke hates to admit that she is crestfallen, but she is. Just like that, he and his dark gear blend into the night, with only the shine of the moonlight on his hair indicating that he was ever there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a LOT of badminton in this one (I mean, it is a badminton AU, but still) so please let me know if you're having trouble following the games. I can lighten up how descriptive the matches are for future chapters. 
> 
> If you're curious about how the game is played, here's an incredible [mixed doubles rally](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=srGDaD8NFWM).


	3. Contact Fault

“Keep your racquet up, Pol!”

Hawke’s voice rings out across the hall as she sits on a bench and watches the four children hit their birds across the net in front of her. “Michal, move those feet! Don’t get stuck in the middle of the court!”

Pol and Junar, rising stars of the Kirkwall Junior Badminton Club and twelve year-old family friends of Merrill, glance back at her at their next service.

“Like this?” calls Pol, demonstrating his ready position as he stands behind Junar preparing for his serve.

“Yep,” Hawke replies. “And keep it there!”

“Hey, no fair!” calls a shrill voice from across the court. “Tell us what we should do better, too, Hawke!”

Hawke stands and scowls at Riana, who scowls right back, with her hands on her hips and her racquet nowhere where it needs to be to receive Junar’s incoming serve. Her partner, Dune, is not confident enough to pester Hawke in the same way, but she watches appreciatively as Hawke squeezes between the two courts to stand in front of Riana.

It would be too easy, she thinks, to make Riana wish she’d never asked for her criticism, but that’s not what she’s here to do. _Patience, Hawke_ , she tells herself, and takes a deep breath.

“I can’t see as well from that side,” she starts, struggling to keep her voice even-tempered and neutral, “but it looks like you’re both getting stuck at the back whenever you need to clear. You have to be light on your feet and return to either your front-back formation or to the sides, if the clear was weak and you need to defend. Like this,” Hawke says, and gestures for them to move. She demonstrates, as if playing a phantom opponent that hits to her back right corner, where she mimes a clear and returns quickly to the midline.

“Use the rotation of your body when doing the clear to carry you through back to your ready position. Now you do it.”

Riana tries first, obviously, and nails it, springing back to the middle of the court after miming her clear easily.

“That makes sense,” she says, less of the whine in her voice than before.

Dune also gives it a try but isn’t quite as quick. She looks crestfallen as she returns to the midline, so Hawke gently suggests, “Let’s try that again, Dune, and this time stop right as you’re about to do the clear.”

She frowns but does as Hawke says. Once she reaches the clear position, Hawke stands in front of her and sticks her hand in the air.

“Try to tap my hand with your racquet.”

Dune’s racquet lightly smacks Hawke’s palm with a vibration of strings.

“Now stay there,” Hawke says, moving from her own position. “Can I touch your shoulder? I’m just going to guide your movement.”

“Sure,” mumbles Dune, brow furrowed, her focus seemingly on maintaining the pose.

“Now follow through… yes, like that.” Hawke nudges Dune’s foot forward with her own while she guides her right shoulder with her hands to twist forward, bringing the racquet down. “Now your weight is on your right foot, and you can easily push off from your left and shuffle back to the midline. Try it again, faster now.”

Dune does, and the movement comes a lot more easily to her than before. She’s back at her ready position in a flash. Hawke gives her an encouraging smile.

“Great job.”

She glances across the court to Pol and Junar, who are chatting amiably, and with a jolt notices that Fenris is leaning against the wall behind them, watching her. She catches his gaze, and he gives her a small smile.

“Excuse me, girls,” says Hawke, picking up her racquet. She hurries to meet him, wishing she was strolling lazily instead the entire time but not quite able to control herself. Something unwelcome thumps in her chest when she sees that he’s wearing the bandana – it’s a stark and beautiful contrast, the red against the white of his hair. _Like blood on snow_ , she thinks, and cringes internally at her newfound desire to wax poetic with cliché similes, apparently.

She leans on the wall next to him. “You’re early,” she remarks by way of greeting.

“You’re good with them,” he says, his gaze impenetrable.

“What?”

“The children. They look up to you.”

Hawke doesn’t know why his words bring heat to her face, and she stupidly says, “Well that’s inevitable, isn’t it?”

He quirks a brow.

“You know, because of the height difference…”

She trails off as she notices Fenris’ wry, sidelong look, and looks away to fidget with the hem of her t-shirt. _Flames_. To her relief, he huffs a laugh at her terrible joke, and she continues.

“Anyway, Varric said he’d try to focus on training us tonight. There won’t be too many games just for fun since we’re getting closer to the tournament. If you’re still interested in competing, that is.”

Fenris only hums noncommittally and starts changing his shoes.

It’s not a confirmation, but not an outright no, either. _Alright_ , she thinks _, I can work with that_.

“Five minutes!” Merrill’s high-pitched voice rings out across the gym. The children hasten to finish their games, and Hawke can see that Talen on the last court is holding his racquet wrong again.

“That’s my cue! Gotta make some athletes out of these rascals.” Against her better judgement, she brushes her fingers against Fenris’ forearm as she walks away. “See you on the court!”

Having corrected Talen’s grip and watched the rest of his game, Hawke assists in shooing the kids off the courts after Merrill calls out the end of the junior club’s time. Isabela is always the best at this, enticing the rowdiest of the children to pack up with stories from her time at sea as a marine biology grad student. Hawke chuckles as she sees the children’s wide eyes at Isabela’s tale of the summer she spent tracking great white sharks on the Waking Sea.

Hawke jogs over to Varric when he arrives and sits down on the bench next to him as he slips off his track pants and changes his shoes.

“So, what’s on the docket today, coach?”

Varric rubs his chin as he shrugs off his sweater. “Well, I’m thinking doubles on courts 1 and 2, singles on 3, and 4 will be just for you and the new guy, at least when we get to the strategy drills. I’ll start everyone on some footwork and regular drills for the first hour, though.”

“Flames, Varric, you’re really looking to kill us, aren’t you?”

He barks a laugh and claps Hawke on the shoulder. “Keep playing like you were last week and I won’t have to.”

The half-hour of footwork is straightforward enough. Varric’s run Hawke through similar drills leading up to competitions many times, and she’s got the speed and stamina pretty much down. Still, she’s amazed by the raw speed with which Fenris blazes through the positions across the court from her. He’s as fluid and lithe chasing the corners Varric calls out as a wolf is running down its prey. In fact, Hawke gets stuck at the front a few times just watching him dash from position to position – it takes a confused look from Fenris and a shout from Varric to keep up to jog her out of her mesmerized state. With a blush she gets back to her own exercises (she’s never blushed so much in her damn life), but not before catching a glimpse of the muscles of Fenris’ bare thigh, his shorts having ridden up from a deep lunge.

After the footwork, they take to their shuttles, practicing hitting different types of shots to each other in quick succession. They start with “clear-smash-drop”, a classic and a favourite of Hawke’s, before moving onto other combinations of shots. Playing across the court from Fenris for the first time, Hawke notices something about his smashes that she hadn’t noticed before.

“You should rotate your forearm more,” she calls when a frustrated curve settles on his brow upon seeing one of his smashes soar too high above the net.

He catches the bird she returns with a quick movement of his left hand and walks over to the net.

“What?”

“Your forearm. You need to rotate it, instead of flicking your wrist, when smashing. It’ll give you that angle that you want. More power.”

Despite his furrowed brow, he mimes the shot again. “Like this?”

Hawke bites her lip and slips under the net over to his side. “Mmm, not quite. Do it again, but slowly.”

Fenris obliges, and Hawke can’t help how her eyes flicker over the smooth ripple of his arm and shoulder muscles as he goes through the movement once again. He’s wearing a form-fitting, shiny black tank top today, demonstrating his sculpted shoulders and the tattoos that curl around them.

“There,” she says, putting up her hand when he’s reached the point at which the rotation should occur. “Can I guide you?”

He pauses as she’s bid him to do but seems hesitant. Hawke immediately stops mid-approach and smiles in what she hopes is a reassuring way. “Hey, no worries. That point there is where you want to rotate your forearm. Like this,” she says, and demonstrates with her own racquet.

Fenris tries to imitate her but seems to see in Hawke’s face that he hasn’t quite gotten it. He mimes the movement once more and stops at the point she had indicated before. “Do what you were going to do. This is important.”

She’s suddenly, inexplicably nervous and realizes that his forearm and racquet are hard to reach at this position due to his height. Her joke from earlier comes to mind, and she almost adapts it to their current situation to lighten the mood, but is distracted by how close they are. Close enough for her to notice how _good_ he smells: it’s an intoxicating mixture of mild cologne, minty shampoo, and probably his natural aroma. It’s dizzying, and the sort of thing that one would notice about Fenris only in certain situations, she observes idly, and resists the urge to smack herself in the forehead. _Don’t make this weird, Hawke_ , she tells herself, and refocuses on the task at hand.

“It’s like this,” she says, lightly guiding the twisting movement of Fenris’ forearm, noticing that he’s clenching his jaw. Once he’s followed through, she lets go and steps away quickly. “Now try again?”

He does. It’s perfect.

“Thank you,” he says, his tone genuinely grateful.

“No problem,” Hawke replies lightly, already making a beeline back to her side of the court.

She almost regrets showing him the technique because his smashes become even more difficult to return, though it’s good practice for her defense. She can see that he’s thrilled with the increased power in his shots – he smirks throughout the rest of the drills that feature smashes. By the time they get to the strategy drills with Varric, she’s ready to stop defending and carry out some attacks of her own. With the help of one of the teen players from the junior club, Varric shows them how to respond in a variety of serving situations.

Varric, with the junior member Iona bringing up the rear disinterestedly, gestures for Hawke and Fenris to take their serving positions.

“Fenris,” Varric starts, “when you’re being served to by the man and the serve is low, you have two options. One, if it’s high enough, you net kill it and stay at the net. Let’s try it now.”

Varric serves it higher than he usually would; Fenris smashes it down (using his newly-learned technique, Hawke notices) and neither Varric nor Iona have a chance to return it.

“Good,” Varric says encouragingly, returning to his serving position. “That’s it. The drawback with that play is that if the other side manages to return it,” he pauses to demonstrate with a serve which mimes a potential return of Fenris’ previous kill, “you’re stuck at a disadvantage – Hawke’s at the back, she can’t smash as hard from there, it’s a whole thing. So, if you’re not sure that you can kill it, it’s better to drop it by the net, buying you time to run to the back, and Hawke to the front. Got it?”

Fenris nods, as does Hawke.

“Great, then let’s try that, too.”

They play out the rally: Fenris drops Varric’s low serve, which Varric returns to the back court where Fenris is ready to clear to Iona, who lets the birdie hit the ground. For good measure, Varric serves Hawke a shot by the net afterwards, to mimic the fast-paced environment of a real game, that she easily smashes by Iona’s feet.

They run through several serving scenarios, Varric describing best practices for the placement of each half of a mixed doubles pair. Hawke has done these kinds of drills in the past, and most are second nature, though she’s still sometimes unprepared for the high and deep flick serve that’s commonly used against her. Fenris seems to be picking up the positions easily as well, and they achieve something of the synergy of the previous week when drilling the various service returns.

By the end of practice, Hawke is sweaty and sore and very much ready for a long shower. She sits on the bench by her things, drinking deeply from her water bottle, unwilling to start getting ready to leave quite yet. Aveline drops by to say goodbye, as does Isabela, though she doesn’t mention the bar. It’s probably for the best – they’re all too sweaty to stink up even the grimy Hanged Man. Corff would most likely catch a whiff and throw them all out. She imagines their group being tossed out by the scruffs of their t-shirts, and chuckles to herself quietly.

Fenris, clearly tired as well, sits down heavily on the bench next to her and opens his own water bottle. He takes a long draught, wiping his mouth with his hand afterward, and turns to Hawke seriously.

“So, when is this tournament?”

Hawke perks up, and quickly replies, “Three weekends from now.”

“Hmm.” He leans back against the wall behind them.

It’s a good idea – Hawke follows suit, pressing the back of her neck against the cool concrete, which relieves some of the heat she’s built up from the exercise (and nearly constant embarrassment).

Fenris pulls out his outdoor shoes, but like Hawke, it seems he’s loath to put the effort into packing up. “That means we only have three practices until we compete. It hardly seems like enough.”

“Oh!” Hawke scrambles to retrieve her cellphone from her bag, trying not to smile too widely at the implication that he’s willing to play. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s your number?”

He smirks. “Heh. That’s forward of you, Hawke.”

She rolls her eyes but can’t help yet another blush from creeping into her cheeks. “Not like _that_ ,” she says, ignoring the little voice in her brain that asks, _isn’t it_? “I play sometimes at drop-ins at other gyms during the week. There’s one in the west end on Mondays, and another in that Hightown community center on Wednesdays. We could play more games there. Get some practice before the tournament.” At that, she opens up a new form in her contacts app and thrusts the phone into Fenris’ hands. “Here, add yourself.”

He does, and hands the phone back to her. She’s suddenly strangely, stupidly giddy. “I’ll text you and we can both go in the next couple of weeks if you’re free.”

“Sure, that would be good,” Fenris says, finally kicking off his court shoes and pulling on his jacket.

At that moment, she receives a barrage of texts from ‘Sister Dearest’:

_Liss!_

_When are you gonna be home?_

_Stella needs a walk and I don’t want my cold to get any worse_

_Hurry up!!_

“Shit!” Hawke says under her breath and types out a quick reply.

_Be home soon_

Then, as an afterthought, she adds:

_Sorry!!_

“Is everything alright?” Fenris asks, a line of concern etched across his forehead.

“Oh, yeah, it’s fine,” Hawke says, scrambling to gather her things and slip into her boots. “Puppy emergency. My mother and sister are both sick and can’t take her out, so…”

Rather hastily, she shoves her shoes and racquet into her bag. “Gotta go! I’ll text you!” she calls, waving at him as she speeds away.

\--

It takes all of Hawke’s self-control not to text Fenris as soon as she gets home, though she doesn’t really know what she would text him about or why she even wants to. She takes poor Stella on a walk and is rewarded with a barrage of sloppy, excited puppy kisses while Bethany coughs pointedly.

“Hey, keep that away from me,” Hawke says, unimpressed. “I’ve got a tournament in a few weeks. Can’t get sick now and miss practice.”

Beth snorts and puts the kettle on. Her nose is red and swollen and she’s wrapped in a thick, fluffy housecoat, but she still manages to croak out, “Miss practice, or miss hanging out with the new guy at the club?”

Hawke groans as she fetches Beth’s favourite peppermint tea from the cupboard and cuts some slices from the lemon that’s been left on the cutting board. “Who told you?”

“Bela,” Bethany rasps, self-satisfied. “Apparently, he’s hot.”

“We’ve only met twice,” Hawke says dismissively as she puts the lemon into a mug, mulches up the slice along with some honey that she’s poured, and throws a teabag in. “We just play well together.”

“Yeah, I _bet_ you do.”

“You really shouldn’t listen to everything Isabela tells you. She’s a bad influence.”

Beth waves her hand weakly. “That’s the best kind of influence.”

Hawke only rolls her eyes and takes the kettle to pour boiling water into the mug. She puts it on a plate, and hands it to Bethany with a belaboured sigh. “Here, you poor, sick girl. To make up for my lateness and Stella’s barking. Now drink this and go to bed so you can get better.”

Beth accepts, but not before sticking her tongue out. “I’ll be reading, if you want to talk more about this new guy of yours.” Hawke groans once again as Beth waltzes down the hall to her room.

Hawke plops down on the couch, and Stella comes to rest her little snout on Hawke’s thigh. She scratches her head as she absentmindedly scrolls through her phone, but when she glances over, the sight is too sweet not to take a photo. She sends the photo to Bethany, who immediately texts back, _MY BABY!!!_

Hawke replies, _Go to sleep!!_

She sends the photo to her group chat with Aveline, Merrill, and Isabela, too – Merrill is the only one who sees it and reacts with a heart-eyed emoji. Finally, she impulsively sends it off to the newly-added phone number for Fenris in her contacts. She waffles for several minutes before adding as a caption, _Puppy emergency resolved_.

Later, after Hawke has showered and gotten ready for bed, she’s embarrassed by the number of times she rolls over in bed to check her phone on her bedside table before finally falling asleep.

\--

The next morning, she’s awoken by the buzz of a notification – groggy still, she paws at her phone and almost drops it on her face when she realizes it’s a reply from Fenris, received after midnight.

_A very good puppy. What’s its name?_

He’s a fellow dog lover, then, and a night owl, apparently. Her heart is alarmingly close to her throat as she taps out a quick response, and after hovering over the ‘send’ icon for a few moments, she sends it.

_Stella!_

_She’s a mabari_

_Brought her over from Ferelden when we moved_

She thinks about attaching another photo of Stella from the veritable repository she has on her phone, but thinks better of it, instead reaching for the glass of water she keeps by her bedside table. To her chagrin, he doesn’t reply right away. After a few dejected minutes opening and closing various other apps, she sighs and gets out of bed.

The rest of the weekend passes without incident – Hawke works on one of her current contracts, cooks some bland meals for her mother and sister (she’s never been a good cook), goes for a run with Stella. On Sunday she goes to the market – Bethany’s well enough to accompany her, and they bicker over the meal planning for the week.

Fenris doesn’t text Hawke back until Sunday night, when she’s watching a boring TV movie with her family. The timing of the vibration coincides with a truly mediocre confession of the hero’s love for his lady, and she absentmindedly watches the actress’ bland approximation of surprise and delight as she turns on her phone screen. With a hollow thump of her heart, she sees Fenris’ name in her notifications, and opens up the conversation eagerly.

_That’s a good name._

The bubble with the three dots signifying that he’s typing something appear afterwards, and she can’t tear her gaze away.

_What time is the drop-in tomorrow? And what is the address?_

She quickly replies.

_It’s at a school on West Harbour Road. Right before the marina, can’t miss it_

_Goes from 6:30-9_

The typing bubble appears again.

_Great. My shift ends at 6:30, so I will be there at 7:15._

She suddenly remembers that she’s never seen Fenris getting into a car after practice, and a trip from the wine shop to the west end would take around 45 minutes.

_Do you need a ride? I could pick you up from your place if you wanna go home before the drop-in_

The bubble comes up and disappears a few times, as if Fenris can’t decide what to say. Finally, a new message pops up.

_That would be appreciated. Thank you._

Hawke nods to herself and asks,

_Where do you live? What time should I come?_

She taps on the address that he sends back and opens it up in her maps app, smirking when she realizes his apartment building is only a fifteen minute walk from hers. Maybe she can offer him a ride home, too.

_I will be ready at 7, if that works for you._

It’s plenty of time for her to pick up Bethany from work and for them to have dinner all together.

_Yep! 7’s perfect_

She types up something else (just as a joke, she thinks), and sends it before she can stop herself.

_It’s a date ;)_

 _Shit,_ she rebukes herself _, why am I like this?_

Fenris texts back only one word:

_Haha_

By this point, Bethany’s been staring at Hawke’s illuminated face in the darkness of their living room for some time. Hawke takes the hint and shuts off her phone, shoving it in her pocket.

“Was that your man?”

“Maker’s balls, Beth, he’s not _my man_. Watch the movie and mind your own business!”

Her sister huffs, and Hawke is grateful to the darkness of their living room for concealing her reddened cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The blushing has really got to stop, Hawke, you're embarrassing yourself.


	4. Balk

It’s dark by the time that Hawke pulls into the loop in front of Fenris’ apartment building. It’s one of the more imposing ones in the neighbourhood, one that Hawke’s always taken notice of when passing by, in all its art deco splendour. Fenris is already outside waiting for her, leaning against one of the large, intricate columns by the entrance with a mild scowl on his face and the red bandana tying back the hair which would have otherwise been falling into his eyes. She rolls down her window as she stops in front of him.

“You’re late,” he calls out as he pushes off the column and picks up the badminton bag at his feet.

She checks her watch, which reads five past seven, and shrugs. “Hey, I’m giving you a ride. And a person giving you a ride is never late, nor early, but arrives precisely when she means to.”

That makes Fenris smile, or at least roll his eyes with a slight curve to his lips, and he tosses his bag on top of hers in the back seat before opening the passenger door and climbing in.

“Nice car,” he comments, as he’s putting on his seatbelt.

“Really? As much as I love Bessie,” she says, patting the dashboard affectionately, “I’d be hard-pressed to call her _nice_.”

“Any car that gets you where you need to go is a nice car,” he says wryly.

“You’ve got me there,” Hawke replies as they pull out of the loop and into the busy street.

Fenris glances at something on his phone, frowns, and puts it in his pocket. “Thanks again for the ride.”

“Sure, no problem,” she replies lightly. “I didn’t realize this is your building. I’ve always thought it was nice, but I’ve never been inside.”

“It’s alright. The people who live here can be a bit pretentious.”

She almost laughs at the irony of his statement, given her first impression of him, but Hawke’s hit again by that intoxicating scent of his – she’s not as close to him as she was on Friday, but he’d probably just put on some cologne before leaving. _Maybe this_ is _a date_ , she thinks, then snorts at the idea of a being as sweaty and exhausted after a date as she is after a good evening of badminton. On the other hand, maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing…

To distract herself from her embarrassing thoughts and the smell of Fenris’ cologne (it would be weird to ask what brand it is, right? Very weird), she turns up the car stereo, which is playing the songs on her phone on shuffle.

“I love this song,” she explains, glancing towards him.

“I’ve never heard it.”

“Oh, this band is _great_. I saw them live a few years ago, and it was such an amazing show. Me and Bela danced all night.” She remembers being only inches away from the main singer crowd-surfing when he decided to get up on his feet, supported by the hands of dozens of fans, a victor receiving the adulation he was due. It had been glorious.

“I’ve never been,” Fenris replies. “That sounds exciting.”

“Oh, that makes sense, if you haven’t heard of them before.”

She listens a bit longer, whispering the chorus under her breath.

“I meant that I’ve never been to a concert.”

 _Shit. Right. Tevinter_. She regrets her ignorance immediately, and is about to say something, but Fenris grimaces and continues.

“Not many musicians want to make the trip. And the tickets are usually too expensive for regular people to buy. You can attend virtually, of course, but it’s not the same, I suspect.”

“No, it wouldn’t be,” Hawke says, pensive. “Well, now that you’re here, we should take you to see some live music! It might not be on the level of these guys, but there’s always some grunge band playing the Lowtown bar circuit.”

His genuine smile makes her heart skip a beat. “I would like that, Hawke.”

They talk about nothing of consequence for the rest of the drive, Fenris about his work, Hawke about her own. His excitement at the usage of a new variety of grape by his favourite vineyard is charming, as is his genuine curiosity about the graphic design project she’s currently working on. He makes her laugh on multiple occasions, his dry wit a great counter to her general silliness, and they arrive at the school gym, splitting up and hitting the changerooms while both clearly in a good mood.

Their good mood, however, evaporates as soon as they play their first game. Hawke can feel the annoyance radiating off Fenris’ stiff shoulders every time she calls out a strategic position change, but she can’t help it, because it appears as if the training from Friday has been completely wiped from Fenris’ memory. She, in turn, is irritated by his insistence to dive to receive shots that she had been gearing up to finish herself, though it does save them the rally several times. The euphoric synergy of their first game together is nowhere to be found – instead, Hawke whirls around on Fenris as soon as they walk off the court, having lost handily to a pair of players from another club.

“Fenris, when I call _mine_ , that means _don’t touch it_!” she hisses.

He spits back, “And _you_ do not need to micromanage everything on the court, Hawke! You’re throwing me off by yelling something every three seconds!”

They stand by the back line of the court, seething at each other. Finally, after another player shoots them a dirty look while walking past, Hawke turns around and stalks off to drop heavily onto the bench behind the court where they just played. Fenris reluctantly follows but doesn’t meet her eye as he sits as far away as possible from her on the same bench, running his hands through his hair and messing up his neat ponytail.

Another court is called as free, and Hawke barks a hasty “C’mon” at him as she gets up to claim it. This game goes no better – without Hawke’s instructions, they’re caught in the wrong positioning several times, and she can’t defend properly against the male opponent’s powerful smash. Likewise, without Fenris trying his best to get every shot he can, they lose several points when Hawke realizes she’s come to rely on his dogged chasing of the shuttle all over the court. This time, they don’t even speak after their loss, choosing instead to plop down wordlessly on the bench. Hawke sighs and puts her head in her hands, not wanting to look at him. To her surprise, it’s Fenris who slides closer to her and makes the peace offering.

“I’m beginning to think,” he says quietly, “that we might just be a bit too competitive, you and I.”

She almost glares at him, but there’s a dry humour in his tone, and one of the corners of his mouth is turned up.

She sniffs dejectedly. “You might be right. I just hate to lose, you know?”

“I am the same.”

They sit in silence, Hawke playing with her loose bun, Fenris adjusting the collar of his shirt absentmindedly.

After a few moments, she turns to him and says sincerely, “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

“I apologize,” he replies, after a pause. “I don’t have much experience with… partnership.”

“And I’ve been playing with Aveline for so long that I forget that my chitchat on the court isn’t welcome with everyone. Truce?” She sticks her hand out, which Fenris takes gingerly.

“How is your hand _so_ sweaty?” He’s shaking his head, but there’s mirth in his eyes.

“I really should wear a glove, huh?”

 _You probably wouldn’t ever want to hold my hand after that_ , Hawke thinks, and then mentally kicks herself for it. However, before she can feel too mortified by her internal dialogue, she’s rescued by an approaching Varric. She didn’t realize he was here, but it’s not unusual to see other KBC members at the drop-ins around the city.

“You guys are playing like hot garbage today, eh?” Varric sounds amused as he strides towards them.

She scowls, and expects Fenris to, as well, but he merely shrugs. “We’ve played better.”

Hawke tries to ignore the tingle that goes down her spine at his use of _we_.

“I’ll say,” replies Varric, and sits down between them. “I watched your last game. What a mess.”

“Do you have a point, or are you just rubbing it in, now?” Hawke crosses her arms and narrows her gaze.

“You know me. I always have a point.” He pauses, presumably for dramatic effect, but he seems to catch the irritation in her eyes, so he hastily continues. “You’re overthinking it. I don’t know what happened between Friday and today, but you’re both so in your heads I can practically see the gears turning. You’re here to have fun, so have fun! Get on the court, and don’t worry about anything – just _play_.”

Just then, the back court of the gym opens up, and Hawke eyes Fenris, who nods. She feels Varric’s hand squeeze her shoulder as she rises from the bench.

“You can do this. Just play!” Varric calls after them as she walks towards the court, Fenris close behind her.

Varric’s advice is annoyingly sound, as it usually is. They win the shuttle toss against the other team, and Hawke shoots Fenris a smile when she feels the gentle tap of his racquet between her shoulder blades as she prepares to serve.

“Let’s just have fun,” she mouths, and he gives her a thumbs up.

She takes a deep breath, trying to discard any remnants of the annoyance she felt before. Then, they’re off.

The team they are facing is no worse than either of the teams they faced earlier. Hawke thinks she might recognize them from the boat ride from Ferelden – the names ‘Edmund’ and ‘Imogene’ come to mind, but she could be wrong. Regardless, potentially-Imogene is a veritable demon at the net, intercepting anything and everything that comes her way, and compensating for the slightly underpowered maybe-Edmund. She and Fenris do their best to keep the bird away from her, but a few too-high drives end up on the floor by their feet, their score four points behind the opponents. Hawke cracks her shoulders and unclenches her jaw between points and sees Fenris doing the same. _Don’t overthink it, Hawke_ , she tells herself _. Let your instincts do the work._

During the next rally, a particularly lovely placement of the birdie by Fenris (a play for which she gives him the heartiest of high-fives) gets them the point and the serve again.

It’s up to Fenris, and before he serves, Hawke has an idea. She looks back and says seriously, “After your serve, do whatever you can to clear to his backhand corner.”

He nods, and after serving low to the man, who sends the bird right back to Fenris’ chest, he pivots and sends a powerful underhand clear to the back corner of the court. As Hawke expected, it catches on the man’s backhand, which he tries to drop, but it’s too high, and Hawke is waiting for him. She smacks the shuttle down – not hard enough, apparently, as the woman returns it, but Hawke is ready for that too, thanks to Varric’s drills last week – she kills the birdie once and for all, before her opponent’s return can make it past the tape at the top of the net.

“Good shot,” says Fenris appreciatively from behind her.

The game continues; at one point, Hawke and the woman on the other team get into an exchange of drives so intense and rapid that had she blinked, she would have gotten a birdie right between her eyes. But she doesn’t blink, instead advancing her position until the woman has no choice: the angle at which she hits her drive is awkward, and it goes straight into the net.

“Yes!” hoots Hawke, before catching the bird that her opponents have tossed to her. She returns to the service line, and glances back at Fenris to see if he’s ready. She catches him mid-chuckle and cocks her head. “What?”

He waves her away, still smiling. “Just serve.”

“No, seriously!”

“The way you celebrate your shots. It’s… endearing.”

Hawke’s eyes widen and she whips her head forward again, her heartrate increasing just a hair. _How am I supposed to focus when you say shit like that?_ But focus she does, and the serve, though a little high, is good enough – they’re able to make an opportunity for Fenris to smash, and before long they’ve gained a point here, another there, outpacing their opponent. An intense rally for the last point later, they’re walking off the court victorious.

They pass Varric heading onto another court, who says, “What did I tell you kids?” with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

Hawke laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Varric.”

As she follows Fenris to sit down at the bench where their things are, she checks her watch. It reads _8:50_ , and she surveys the rest of the courts, straining her ears to hear the scores. Someone calls out 15-8; another voice yells 7-4. She takes her hair out of her bun, shuddering when she feels it stick to the back of her sweaty neck.

“I don’t think we’re going to get another game, it’s almost 9. Besides, I was gonna shower. Do you want a ride home?”

Fenris seems to hesitate, but she waves her hand.

“Come on, you live 5 minutes away from me. No point taking the bus.”

“Yes. The bus can be rather… unpleasant. Thank you.”

There’s that genuine smile again, the one that seems to cause heart arrhythmias, apparently. She gets up before she can blush once again in his presence (a phenomenon, she realizes almost proudly, that she’s managed to avoid this whole evening), and tells him she’ll meet him outside. Ten minutes and a shower later, she’s blessedly clean, wrapping her damp hair into a tight bun as she walks out of the changeroom. It’s a warm night, she realizes once the outside breeze hits her face, hopefully the first of many – she’s suddenly overwhelmed by the joyful hopefulness of springtime, the heady smell of green, growing things on the wind. She almost hates to leave it, as she clambers into her car, Fenris close behind, and as such, she opens the windows as soon as the car turns on.

These feelings, Hawke tells herself, probably have nothing to do with the fact that they finally had a good game. Or that Fenris called her ‘endearing’.

The joy can’t help but bubble out of her when a particularly cheerful song comes on shuffle just as they turn onto a faster street. “It’ll be summer, soon, can you feel it?”

There’s a wistfulness to his smile that she doesn’t understand. “Yes. My first summer in Kirkwall.” He pauses, eyes glazed over, faraway. “Summer in Minrathous was my favourite season.” Now, he chuckles. “I only hope summer here is better than the winter.”

She can’t help it – she beams. “Well, it’s the best for badminton, for sure. There’s a big tournament in Kirkwall at the end of Solace every year. The patios open up in Lowtown, and if you don’t mind the griminess of Darktown clubs, there’s a strip that’s the best for dancing. If you like that sort of thing, anyway.”

“Heh. I was thinking weather-wise, but I have heard that the grimier a club, the better it is.”

Hawkes laughs, thinking of how the best times she’s had at clubs were mostly in the kinds where her shoes stuck to the floor and where there was always a girl to compliment her eyeliner in the bathroom. “You’re not wrong. Well, it’s probably cooler than Minrathous here, but just as humid. My hair tends to explode every chance it gets. I blame the harbour.”

It’s pure chance that they’re passing by it at that very moment, and she gestures to Fenris’ side, towards the dark, starlit expanse of seemingly endless water. He turns, leaning his elbow on the window frame and cupping his chin with his right hand. She can see his profile against the water, the delicate trace of the silvery tattoos around his chin, his white hair fluttering in the breeze from the window against the mysterious deep of the sea.

He’s beautiful, Hawke realizes, in a way that goes beyond mere physical attraction. Beautiful, the way a sunset is beautiful, or moonlight on snow-covered treetops, or the sound of birdsong on a quiet, peaceful morning. For a moment, she can scarcely believe he is real – one blink and he could disappear into that cold, dark water.

 _Mad_ , she thinks, _you’ve gone stark, raving mad. And if you don’t look at the road right now, you’re going to crash this damn car_.

She does look away, of course, and realizes they were in no danger – when she looks back at him, he’s pulled out his phone and is pursing his lips at whatever he’s reading there.

The moment is gone.

She turns up the volume on the stereo.

When he gets out of the car, by his apartment, she hopes she doesn’t stare too longingly at his back as he walks away.

On Wednesday, they manage to squeeze in a few games against some high-level players at the Hightown community center. There are fewer losses this time, fewer disagreements, too – they leave the gym tired but satisfied. Afterwards, they walk home together since the center is just a few blocks from her apartment. He insists on dropping her off at her place, though it forces him to go out of his way to get home. She thanks him before he leaves, but he merely smiles and tells her he’ll see her on Friday.

Friday’s practice passes much the same as the last one, with Varric now drilling them on responding to service returns, with some strength conditioning thrown in. She catches Fenris messing around by pretending to walk around mid-air while doing his assigned pull-ups on the horizontal bars in the corner of the gym. The tips of his ears get pink when he sees her looking, and he quickly yields the bar to the next person as she giggles softly.

Hawke’s just coming out of her shower cabin in the changeroom, towel wrapped around her chest, when Isabela asks her if she’s coming to the Hanged Man after practice. She waves her away, claiming that she’s tired, and feels only a little guilty at Bela’s dejected expression. In truth, Anders had texted her earlier in the week, asking her how ‘things’ were, wondering if they could hang out soon, and he isn’t something she wants to deal with tonight. When Fenris sidles up next to her on the bench where she’s packing her things and curiously asks her the same, she’s too tired to lie.

“I’m just not feeling up to it, to be honest. My friends can be a handful,” she says, aware that she’s being vague, but Fenris doesn’t press her on it.

Instead, he nods. “Understandable,” he says, and starts packing up his shoes, meticulous as always.

Though she’s not feeling the bar, Hawke doesn’t really want to be alone on the drive home, either.

“Want a ride?” she asks, wondering what kind of plans Fenris might have for this Friday night.

“Ah. Sure. Thank you.” She’s pleased that he doesn’t seem as hesitant, nor as surprised, when she asks.

When they pull into the loop in front of his apartment building, she finds himself watching his back as he walks away, just as before. Only this time, he pauses mid-step, turns around, and gestures for her to roll down her window.

“Do you want to come up?” he calls. She stares blankly at him for a few moments, and he cocks his head and adds, “Since you said you’d never been inside before. Or does your Stella,” and here he grins, “need you once again?”

“Oh! Sure, yeah, that’d be nice,” she says, a little stunned at his offer. “Stella should be fine, now that Bethany’s gotten over her cold… Where, uh,” she gestures in front of her, “can I park?”

The door alarm goes off as Fenris clambers back in, tossing his racquet bag onto the back seat, where it just was.

“There’s visitor parking at the back,” he says, pointing to a darkened alley that branches off the loop and goes between his building and the next.

“Well, if this is the part where you murder me, let me just say that it was still worth it.”

He gives a dry snort as she inches through the narrow alleyway, wary of other cars that could be driving in the other direction. “It’d a waste to murder you. I’d just steal your car.”

Hawke laughs. “Oh, that’s very fair.”

They emerge from the alleyway, Hawke’s life and car intact, and she pulls into a parking spot that’s marked for visitors. Fenris gets out of the passenger seat and grabs his bag once again, but this time she follows him as he retrieves a loop of rattling keys from his pocket. He swipes an access card at what Hawke assumes is the back entrance to the building and she walks with him, barely keeping up with his brisk pace, through a marble-tiled lobby, into an elevator, and back out when a disembodied voice says, “Seventh floor”. A jingle of keys by a door labeled ‘726’ later, she’s in what she assumes is Fenris’ apartment.

“Here it is. Home sweet home,” he says, with irony in his voice that she doesn’t understand, as he drops his badminton bag unceremoniously by a mostly empty shoe rack and kicks his shoes off by the door.

Hawke, however, is taken aback: the place itself is just as luxurious as the exterior suggested it would be, all high ceilings and dark-grained wood and dusky leather furniture. The kitchen, where Fenris has padded off to, is a sea of beige granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. She watches him, still standing awkwardly by the entrance, as he turns on the light in the kitchen and looks critically into the fridge. It’s only when he glances at her and gestures for her to sit at the highchairs by the absurdly large kitchen island that she slips off her boots and cautiously hangs up her coat on a hook by the shoe rack.

“What do they say in Antiva?” Fenris has resumed his task of staring annoyedly at the contents of the refrigerator, which seems rather empty, at least from Hawke’s seat at the island. “ _Mi casa es su casa_? Or something.”

She chuckles as he closes the fridge door with a thud and reaches under the island to pull out a bottle of red wine, placing it on the island with a soft clink of glass against stone.

“I’d offer you something else, but I’m afraid my kitchen is rather… bare.” He ducks down once again and emerges with two glasses. “There might be a box or two of crackers somewhere if you’d prefer. There’s also…” he glances around wildly, “water?”

Hawke, who has already taken the bottle into her hands, snorts. “I’ll take the wine, if you’re willing to share.” She reads the label out loud, sounding out the unfamiliar syllables. “‘Aggregio Pavali’. Huh. I’ve never heard of this variety before, _sanguinis_. Sounds Tevene more than Antivan.”

Fenris takes the wine from her, having opened and closed several drawers and finally retrieved a corkscrew. She feels the brush of his fingers against her own, but when she looks up to catch his eye, he’s already nimbly removing the metal casing around the neck of the bottle.

“It is. It was a favourite of Dan— It’s popular there. In Tevinter.”

Hawke doesn’t miss the stumble, especially given the usual fluidity and confidence with which he speaks. She glances around the apartment, surely too large for just one person to live in but sees only a few pairs of shoes aside from her own at the entrance, and mostly empty shelves around the large fireplace in the living room. _Maybe it was a bad breakup_ , she thinks, _with this ‘Dan’ person, and he’s been saddled with this too-big apartment ever since_.

The pungent aroma of the wine directs her gaze back to the glasses as Fenris deftly pours her, and then himself a generous draught. She picks up her glass and appreciates the delicate clink as she taps her glass against his.

“Your place is really nice. Thanks for letting me see it,” she says, genuinely grateful, and oddly touched that he’d invited her up based on an offhand comment that she’d made a few days ago. He smirks as their glasses touch, and she brings the glass to her lips. The wine is unlike anything she’s ever tasted before, though she’s not sure if she likes it, not yet. There’s some strange, smoky quality to it.

Fenris seems to have caught the hesitancy in her expression, and his smirk widens. “It’s different from southern wine, isn’t it? The _sanguinis_ grape only grows in vineyards outside of Minrathous. I’ve been told it’s an acquired taste, for some.”

She considers for a moment, taking another sip. “I definitely don’t hate it,” she says, appreciating that it is, indeed, wine, and not blood, as the name of the grape suggests. “But you might be right about it being an acquired taste.”

He nods, still smiling. “In my experience, the alcohol content certainly helps with the acquisition.”

Hawke thinks about the one too many disgusting foods she’s eaten while drunk that she wouldn’t approach sober if her life depended on it, and chuckles. “I think you’re right. It’s not a coincidence that sketchy drunken pizza often tastes better than even the fanciest Antivan restaurant.”

Fenris barks a laugh, then takes a long swig from his glass and sets it back down on the countertop. He stares at Hawke intensely for a second before seeming to remember himself. “Excuse me for a moment,” he says softly, and disappears into the long hallway adjacent to the apartment’s living room.

Hawke takes this opportunity to allow herself to wander around the space, wine glass in hand – she admires the view out of the enormous windows, wondering if her own building is one of the many whose dappled lights can be seen from here. There’s a chess set and a handful of books on Tevinter history on the built-in, dark brown shelves that she noticed before, as well as some candles with unburnt wicks. Strangely, the loveseat across from the larger sofa has a dust cover on it that doesn’t appear to have been removed for some time. On the coffee table is a plastic bag holding several takeout containers from a northern Rivaini restaurant around the corner that she likes, and she wonders what Fenris ordered from there.

She drains her glass, setting it on the coffee table, realizing that Fenris is right – a glass later, the smoky flavour has grown on her. However, this means that she needs to find the bathroom – venturing into the dark hallway, she sees light streaming through a door that’s slightly ajar.

“Fenris,” she calls, suddenly unsure. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Sure,” he replies, his muffled voice coming from the illuminated room. “It’s the last door on the right.”

Eyes drawn by the light, she glances instinctively at the partly open door as she passes by.

And catches a glimpse of Fenris, bare to the waist, facing away from her.

There isn’t time to unpack the intense jolt of… something… that goes through her spine at the sight of his finely muscled back, intricately ornamented with the tattoos, similar to what she’s seen of the rest of his body. She doesn’t linger, speeding to the door he indicated and shutting the door behind her as if she were being pursued by some enemy, a bit louder than strictly necessary.

She takes a deep breath. _Get it together, Hawke. Be_ cool _. Damn it_ , she thinks, though she can see in the mirror that she most certainly does not have anything together and is clearly incapable of being cool, if the flush on her face is any indication.

By the time she returns to the living room, she’s no longer red, her wine glass has been filled, and Fenris is sitting at one end of the couch, blessedly fully clothed once more. He’s donned some slim-fitting jeans and a dark red sweater, the colour not so far off from that of the wine. _He really does look great in red_ , she remarks to herself as she sits down at the other end of the couch, across from him.

“So how long have you been living here?” she asks conversationally at the same time as he turns to face her and blurts out, “The person who owns this place doesn’t know that I’m here.”

“What?” she asks, confused.

“This apartment. It doesn’t belong to me.”

She can’t help her mouth from falling ajar a little bit, but it explains a lot – the lack of personal belongings or decorations, the overly large size for just one person on a service job budget, the fact that he doesn’t seem to know where his corkscrew is. She’s met a lot of people with weird living situations, though, some living on boats, others in their own medical clinics, so she just shuts her mouth and shrugs.

“Is the person who it belongs to… going to come back?”

He looks a little surprised at her reaction, but keeps watching her evenly. “No. At least, I doubt it. This—” he makes a large, sweeping gesture around the room, “was purchased as a… last resort. And that last resort is no longer an option. As far as he knows, anyway.” He takes a sip of his wine and she’s reminded to reach for her own.

“Is he why you left Tevinter?” she asks, very gently.

He shifts in his seat, bringing one of his knees up onto the couch, elbow on the backrest.

“One does not usually leave one’s homeland for pleasant reasons, Tevinter especially,” he begins, eyes dark, corners of his mouth wrought down. “I was… a high-level athlete. I competed at the national level, with an education that was bought and paid for by the state. And thus, I was, too. Bought and paid for.”

She’s still trying to grasp the enormity of what he’s saying when he goes on.

“The Imperium’s medical system has access to advancements in the realm of body augmentation that your friend Anders could only dream of.” He spits out Anders’ name like a curse, his frown turning to a grimace. “I was never informed exactly of how they work, but these,” he traces the lines on his chin with his fingertips, “are no mere ornaments. They are enhancements. And the choice on whether they should be etched into my skin was not made by me, but by my coach, who was also a high-ranking bureaucrat.”

He takes a deep breath before saying it. “ _Danarius_.”

If Hawke thought there had been venom before, in Fenris’ pronunciation of Anders’ name, his tone now, in saying the name of his former mentor, was downright radioactive. Her heart breaks for him, just for a moment. There is clearly more to his relationship with this Danarius than he has stated – the deep, dark hatred in his eyes upon his mention tells her as much. However, for once, she does not wish to probe. Instead, she asks quietly, “Does this place belong to him, then?”

Fenris stares darkly into his wine. “Yes. A retreat for when he travels. But given the recent sanctions, it’s as good as abandoned. I stole the keys from his manor in Seheron. And then I ran.”

“I really should have been worried about you stealing my car back there, huh.” The joke escapes her lips before she can think better of it, but thankfully the corners of Fenris’ mouth twitch and his grimace turns into an exasperated smile.

“Must you joke about everything, Hawke?” he beseeches, but she can’t hear any ire in the question, and something about the way he says her name gives her goosebumps on the back of her neck.

“Hmm, only most things. Prioritizing serious and heavy subjects, of course.”

Fenris’ laugh is throaty as he tilts the glass to his mouth and finishes it. He sighs, and the smile fades. They sit in silence for a few moments before Hawke speaks again.

“My family and I, we fled the Blight in Ferelden. Managed to get here before they closed all the borders. I remember being so damn scared on that ship, terrified that someone sick had gotten on and that we’d all soon be dead…” She’d brought it up in an attempt to sympathize with needing to run, but the memories are still crushing, even after all this time, especially when she thinks about how sick Carver had gotten in Ferelden, the overwhelmed hospitals, how lucky he’d been to actually get out of there, how close they had all been to losing him…

She blinks, hard, and refocuses. Fenris watches her patiently, and she suddenly feels as if she’s been stripped bare under his gaze. Nevertheless, she continues.

“We had family in Kirkwall. My mother grew up here, and her brother, my uncle Gamlen, was supposed to be living in her childhood home. It turned out that he’d sold it to cover his gambling debts, the bastard, and that he couldn’t help us at all. So we couldn’t go back, couldn’t get into the city because of quarantine.” Flames, she feels tears pricking her eyes at the memory in her mind’s eye of her mother, who had been so strong through the whole journey, sobbing despondently by the gates to the city as she waves Hawke and Bethany away.

“Eventually, we figured it out. I just wanted to say that I know how it feels to leave an old life behind.”

Both of Fenris’ legs are now on the couch – he’s curled into himself, arms wrapped around his knees. “Would you return to Ferelden, now that the plague has passed?”

“No,” Hawke says curtly. “Aside from my father’s gravestone in Lothering, there’s nothing for me there.”

“I understand. And… I’m sorry.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s alright. He died before the Blight, of a heart attack. It’s been a long time.”

A long time, but she still talks to him in her dreams. She’s sure her mother does, too. She sighs, heart heavy, as is the air around them.

“How long have you been on the run?”

“Three years.”

“A long time, too, then.”

“Yes.” He seems tired as he drops his feet back to the floor, pouring himself another glass of the wine.

“Will you stay? In Kirkwall, I mean?”

“It’s as good a place as any, I suppose. And I doubt I’d find any place to hide elsewhere that’s quite as nice as this one.”

“It _is_ nice,” she says appreciatively, and somehow the weight of their heavy stories evaporates around them, leaving her with a sense of ease. “Plus, there’s free wine!”

He scoffs. “Free to _you_ , maybe. _I’ll_ still have to pay for it, once Danarius’ cellar runs out.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, maybe I’ll bring my own, next time.”

It’s a slip of the tongue, implying there may be a next time for them to sit in the living room Fenris has occupied, sipping stolen wine and trading stories of their lives beyond the badminton court. She meets his gaze with her own, and there’s something strung between them as if on a wire, something small and golden and delicate.

The buzz of her phone in her pocket forces her glance away, and the tiny thread of unknown substance between them snaps as she looks at the screen. It’s a text from Bethany.

“Something wrong?” Fenris asks, perching his strong chin in his elegant fingers.

“My sister’s wondering if I’m coming home soon.” She doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but it does – Maker, did she really just basically ask if she could stay the night? Fenris, almost a complete stranger, albeit one with whom she's shared some of her most significant psychological traumas as of very recently, and the badminton partner with whom she’s supposed to compete in a few weeks?

He hums and takes a sip. “I suppose you shouldn’t worry her,” he says softly. There’s the answer to her unspoken question.

“Yes,” she replies, and stands up, downing the contents of her wine glass. “Well, thanks for the wine. I’ll see you on Monday?”

He walks with her to his foyer, and when she turns back in the hallway that’s outside his door, she finds he’s still standing there, watching her, a look in his eyes that she’s not used to, the trace of the small golden thing. “Bye,” she murmurs, giving him a wave. He only gives her a half-smile and waves back, shutting the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The unknown substance of the thread is UST, in case that wasn't clear

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're not within the rather niche target audience (i.e. FenHawke-loving badminton players), let me know if you're having trouble understanding the plays. Thanks for reading!
> 
> \--
> 
> List of terms:
> 
> Serve/service: the first shot of a point. Served by the person who won the last point.
> 
> Cross-court: diagonally across the whole court.
> 
> Forehand: hitting the bird with the forehand means that if you didn’t have a racquet in your hand, you’d be hitting it with your palm.
> 
> Backhand: hitting the bird with the forehand means that if you didn’t have a racquet in your hand, you’d be hitting it with the back of your hand.
> 
> Drop shot: a soft shot that goes just over the net and drops quickly to the ground. Can be done from either the back of the court or very gently right at the front.
> 
> Drive: a horizontal, flat, non-parabolic shot. Not usually very powerful, but fast.
> 
> Smash: a powerful, downwards, low, fast shot. Can be more difficult to return directly compared to other shots – often finishes the point, especially in lower-level play.
> 
> Clear: a powerful, high, slow, parabolic shot, usually from the back court of one side to the back court of the other.


End file.
